


Red Roses

by incandescens



Category: In Nomine
Genre: Bad Romance, F/M, Gen, Vampires, fluffy cute flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incandescens/pseuds/incandescens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Maher finds out that Victorian London does not necessarily involve Sherlock Holmes, but it may involve vampires, while undergoing the dire strain of working with a Servitor of Flowers.</p>
<p>(Set after _Hastening_ and before _Lily Blues_.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Roses

  
Outside the heavy glass of the window, the yellow fog hung in a dank unwholesome mass, surging gently from time to time as a hansom rattled by below. Maher watched it, and sighed. The Elohite at his desk was quite content to be fiddling around with papers and documentation, but he couldn't understand the thrill of the chase, the fulfilment of armed battle and the clash of arms.   
  
The Malakite paused his thoughts for a moment, and made a definite attempt to be more charitable. One couldn't expect a Servitor of Lightning to really, truly understand about that sort of thing. At least the Elohite was being reasonable to work with, and not insisting on too much formality. He bit back another sigh.  
  
"I still don't see why I couldn't have taken the Role of a consulting detective," he muttered, half to himself, half to the pen-scratching Elohite. "It would have made it a lot simpler to investigate matters."  
  
The Elohite put down his pen, and pushed his half-glasses - surely an affectation - up on the bridge of his nose. "Are you aware how many angels have requested such a Role, since those stories came out?"   
  
_Surely only angels of Michael,_ he thought hopefully - _well, perhaps Servitors of Fire and the Sword, and maybe some of Wind, and perhaps Judgement - then again, they had been awfully popular . . ._  
  
It showed in his face. The Elohite murmured, "Precisely," and looked back down to his papers again.   
  
Maher propped his chin on a fist, and stared back out of the window. They were waiting for the third assigned member of the team. Adelbert had not as yet informed him who it was, but he was personally hoping for a Servitor of the Sword. Or Fire, perhaps, or Stone. Or another Malakite, whatever Word they served. Or a Cherub, or an Ofanite. Here in this dangerous England under Queen Victoria, he needed all the sensible military-minded help he could get.  
  
There was a knock on the door, and a servant's voice drifted through. "Young lady to see you, Professor Severson."  
  
Adelbert put his pen down again, and called, "Send the young lady in, Jenkins, and bring us some tea."  
  
The door opened, and a fold of skirt wafted in, followed by the owner. Maher realised, with horror, that she was blonde, petite, and pretty. He desperately hoped that she was one of the stealth-type fighters who concealed tooth and nails under an outwardly attractive surface. She had curling blonde hair pinned up in waves, blue eyes, cheeks flushed with some recent exercise, and a dainty grey dress with old-rose frills at neck and wrists. She smiled at them both as she closed the door behind her. "Professor! And this must be . . ."  
  
Maher prayed, fervently. "Matthew Shell." He rose from his seat, and stalked across to offer her his hand in a firm grip.   
  
She took it, and squeezed his hand with a perky grin. He felt his spirits sink still further.  
  
"Leonie," she said. "Leonie Valedane. And I know Professor Severson, of course." She let go of Maher's hand, and turned back to the Elohite. "It's very good to see you again, sir. But you've been too much indoors. You're looking dreadfully pale."  
  
The Elohite made a small noise in his throat, and waved her towards a chair. As she took a seat and smoothed her skirts over her knees, the college servant came in with a tray, bearing teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits.   
  
"Will this be enough, sir?" he asked Adelbert. "I'm afraid that it's a little early for high tea . . ."  
  
The Elohite nodded. "That will do nicely, Jenkins. Thank you. I will ring when you are needed again."  
  
The servant nodded vaguely, put the tray down on a table near Leonie, brushed his hands in an ineffectual motion, and left, closing the door behind him.  
  
Adelbert set his elbows on his desk, thoughtfully. "I suggest that we introduce ourselves. I am Adelbert, Elohite of Lightning."  
  
Maher considered some vague hope that if he spoke first, the girl might miraculously change character before he finished the sentence. Perhaps she was a very cunningly disguised Malakite. He could even tolerate a Malakite of Novalis or Eli. "I am Maher-shalal-hash-baz, Malakite of War. People usually call me Maher."  
  
The girl smiled sunnily. "I am Leonie, Mercurian . . ."   
  
_No, no, no_ , Maher thought to himself. _Please, no._  
  
" . . . of Novalis." She spread her hands. "We seem to be a well-balanced group."  
  
 _Support personnel,_ Maher repeated to himself. _I will need support personnel, and I may need somebody to question the female suspects in a womanly and understanding way, depending on what this assignment actually _is_. Yes, we are a well-balanced group, and I will endeavour to control my daydreams of three Malakim who would have cloven through this city like a blade of burning steel . . ._  
  
He felt the Elohite's eyes on him, and coloured a touch. "Would you care to give the briefing, sir?"  
  
Adelbert folded his age-spotted hands, interlacing fingers. His white hair was combed sharply back from his face, exposing a hawklike nose and bristling eyebrows, and a silver tiepin neatly skewered the knot of his tie above a drab grey waistcoat. "As you say." His voice was as crisp as his cuffs. "I understand that the two of you have both been assigned here at somewhat short notice?  
  
The girl - Leonie, Maher corrected himself - nodded. "I was supposed to be going to Paris, but I was redirected here. Requel said there was some sort of local problem."  
  
Maher nodded in turn as the Elohite looked to him. "I was just back from another task, and my direct commander reassigned me down this way. I've been in London before, a decade or so back."  
  
Adelbert nodded. "That will be useful." He glanced between the two of them again. "Our problem appears to be a minor infestation of vampires."  
  
Maher's back straightened as a whole new vista opened to him. He said, "Vampires?"  
  
At the same moment, but in a tone of outright disgust, Leonie said, "Vampires?"   
  
Adelbert regarded them both. With the cool precision of Elohim, he didn't comment on their repeating of his words. He didn't have to, Maher thought with an inward wince. His look said it all. "We have had several cases of corpses being found in a condition that suggests the more temperamental sort of vampire, swayed by romantic notions. There have also been several localised Symphonic disturbances lately. We are to investigate the situation and prevent diabolical influence in human matters."  
  
Maher nodded. This looked as if it might be a great deal more interesting than he had expected. "Were the corpses found in any particular area, sir?"  
  
Adelbert picked one of the papers from the stack on his desk. "They were all found within the area bounded by Leicester Square, Oxford Street, Piccadilly and Tottenham Court Road. As you will know," he inclined his head slightly to Maher, "this is a theatre and shopping district, including Soho and Chinatown."  
  
Leonie leaned forward to get a better look at the map which Adelbert was offering. "Were they all found in the same sort of location, and were they the same social class or type?"  
  
Possibly, Maher considered, she might be quite useful. He put this thought virtuously on one side to be admired later, and nodded in agreement, glancing to Adelbert.  
  
Adelbert looked mildly thoughtful. "Of the eight, seven were young, five were of upper-middle class, three were prostitutes, six had no close family, and none showed any sign of struggle. I have some connections with the police pathologists, and obtained the post-mortem results on their bodies."  
  
"How are we going to investigate this?" Maher asked. "I can certainly try prowling the streets during the hours of night." Imagination filled in a number of pleasant pictures.  
  
The Elohite separated out another paper, and slid it across the desk towards them. "It would probably be more efficient for you to question the friends and families of the victims, in order to reconstruct their movements when they were attacked. Together you should be able to gather a great deal of information, which you will then bring to me for sorting and collating, so that we can establish a pattern."  
  
Ah well, this sounded sensible enough. Maher nodded. "Any suggestions as to which we should visit first, sir?"  
  
Adelbert gestured at the papers. "I have listed them in the order that I believe likely to hold useful information. I have also included a map among your documentation, so that you can plot the most efficient route."  
  
Leonie smiled, straightening her skirt. "Well then, shall we be getting to it, Maher? It sounds like a nice straightforward job."  
  
Maher suppressed a twitch of unease. This sounded far too forward and active for a Servitor of Flowers. Perhaps she was just nervous, he reassured himself. "Certainly." He rose, taking the documents from the Elohite. "Thank you very much, sir. We'll try and get back to you by this evening, or tomorrow."  
  
"An excellent thought," murmured Adelbert, as the two young people left the room.

* * *

They walked down the street together. Leonie had collected her grey cape at the porter's lodge, and her hands were demurely gloved in paler grey kidskin. Maher adjusted his top hat, and attempted to banish all feelings of corporeal indulgence while he concentrated on the case.  
  
"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "I'll take care of all the actual fighting."  
  
She tilted her head to look up at him. He had to admit that the general posture was quite fetching. "Well, if we have to have fighting. I was rather hoping that we could avoid all but the most necessary."  
  
"People are being killed," he pointed out. "I don't know what your Mistress thinks about vampires, but it sounds to me as if we may have to put down whatever is doing it."  
  
She frowned. "Assuming that more peaceful methods won't yield a better result, of course." The "of course" sounded a touch forced.  
  
He decided to be as reasonable as he possibly could. "If it doesn't overly endanger you, I can try and let you talk to them first."  
  
"Endanger _me_?" Her eyes went wide and vivid. "I'm not concerned with my own danger. I'm concerned with other people. With whoever is sick and twisted enough to do this . . ."  
  
Maher said, through gritted teeth, "Just because you've spent your life in a nice happy little ivory tower in Heaven doesn't mean you can expect demons to act "nicely" down here on Earth. I've met beings who'd chew you up and spit you out as soon as look at you."  
  
"How old are you?" she prodded. "That is, in terms of Earth experience."  
  
"Irrelevant," he muttered.   
  
Her smirk said volumes.  
  
"The point," he attempted to regain the high ground, "is that I _have_ seen combat, and know a bit more about it than people like you."  
  
"Like me?" Her voice grew suddenly quieter, but honed itself like the steel of a Sword-Servitor. "What exactly do you think I am? Some sort of little zombie that runs round whimpering, "Peace! Love! Sleep with me!""  
  
He was fairly sure that he hadn't meant to imply that. A few heads were turning to look at them, and he kept his reply low. "Everyone knows that Servitors of Flowers always try and find a peaceful solution, even if it's not the most sensible one." He tried to find a better way of putting it. "We don't blame you for being the way you are, don't worry . . ."  
  
For some reason she went dead white to the lips, the rouge on her cheekbones the only colour in her face. Her jaw clenched as though she were swallowing back words.  
  
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked, a touch worried. Perhaps he had hurt her self-esteem. He hadn't actually meant to wound her, just to give her a better sense of things.  
  
"Why, I wouldn't know." Her eyes were as blue as gentians. "After all, I wouldn't blame you for being a warmongering thug with your brains in your scabbard and your eyes ten miles up your rear end and lacking in the sense to see beyond the end of your nose. If you can't get your mind out of a military satchel, try this thought: why would angels like me have been created if we weren't just as necessary as you?"  
  
Maher frowned at her, and didn't answer until they were around the corner and out of their current position as centre of attention on the street. "You might as well say the same thing about me. Why was I created if I wasn't as necessary as you?"  
  
She took a deep breath. "Very well. How would you feel if I started talking about you being the "way you are" as if that was an excuse for some sort of crime?"  
  
Maher shrugged. "I'm a Malakite. I have always understood what that meant, and I have always - _always_ \- been ready to serve my Archangel, whatever he asked of me."  
  
"That isn't what I meant," she said.  
  
"Then what did you mean?" he asked, a shade annoyed.  
  
She gestured with one hand at a group of washerwomen they passed. "You said that you'd been here a while. Have you heard the men here talking about women being "women, so they're like that, so they can't help it"?"  
  
He shrugged. "Sex-linked prejudice, yes. While it is a fact that men tend to be more muscled, as a general rule," and he thought amiably about the well-structured build of his Vessel, "it's not as if it is some kind of species oddity or weakness. It's just how they're built. The attitude seems to be changing, have you noticed?"  
  
She seemed to be working on controlling her breathing. "So, have you seen women getting annoyed at that? And can you understand why?"  
  
He blinked, suddenly realising why she was annoyed. "Look, you mustn't think that I think any the less of you because you've taken a female Vessel. It's a ploy to work more efficiently. I do understand that."  
  
She said, through gritted teeth, "Actually, I enjoy looking pretty. The fact that I also get work done better is just icing on the cake."  
  
He turned to stare at her. "I thought you just said you didn't run around whimpering about bed all the time . . ."  
  
"Oh." Her voice was perfectly neutral. "And of course you didn't request a good-looking young male Vessel for anything but the most objective of reasons. Are you sure you aren't an Elohite in disguise?"  
  
"It's the muscles," he said blandly.  
  
She reached across to put a delicate gloved hand on his forearm, and squeezed.   
  
He fought the reflex to jerk away. "Is that absolutely necessary?"  
  
"Tell me," she said thoughtfully, "how precisely do you propose to speak with the prostitutes?"  
  
He frowned. "Well, I'll try not to discuss their position too much, or get into all the messy corporeal aspects of it. After all, it won't be relevant . . ." He absorbed the look on her face. "Will it?"  
  
"Women. On their own. Talking with strange men. At night."  
  
Maher grunted. "Why didn't they pick a Malakite of Novalis to work with you on this?" His voice was a shade plaintive.  
  
She smiled sweetly at him. "Because the big bad Malakite of Michael is going to protect me from the vampires. Aren't you?"  
  
He looked down at her again. "You've obviously never seen a Michaelite in action." The thought of impressing her cheered him, for some reason that he felt no particular urge to go into.

* * *

"I am very well aware of your interest, young man." The elderly woman's black bombazine dress creaked as she leant forward. "Allow me to inform you that we have absolutely no intention of permitting the muckrakers of the capital to gain cheap entertainment from what is a personal family tragedy."  
  
Maher sat poker-straight in his chair, his cup of tea balanced on his knee in its delicate china saucer, and wondered if it was possible to develop stomach ulcers from drinking too much tea. This was the eighth and last house on their list, and at every place they had been offered tea. Not coffee, not alcohol, just tea. He morbidly pondered whether the vampire or vampires were attracted to the families of tea-drinkers, and let Leonie answer the woman's question.  
  
Leonie leant forward, somehow managing to project an air of vulnerability and innocence. "Believe me, Mrs Fanshaw, I wouldn't be involved if that were the case. It's just that . . ." she hesitated artistically. "We are both women. Men cannot understand the sort of dangers that we face here in London. If I can help some other women through this investigation, prevent someone else being murdered as your niece was, then I am prepared to undergo as much personal humiliation as may be necessary." There was a quiet determination to her voice, and Maher wondered how much of what she said was for the woman's ears, and how much was the truth of her own nature.  
  
There was a pause, as the elderly woman bowed her head, and watched her hands. The veins stood out, blue and ridged against the thin papery skin that was wrinkled and blotched by age: small yellow talons, feeble and frail against the harsh black fabric of the skirt. Slowly, she said, "What precisely do you need to know, Miss Valedane?"  
  
Leonie kept her voice pitched low and gentle: Maher could appreciate that, even if he knew he didn't have that sort of technique or control. "We heard from the police reports that your niece had a fragment of paper in her bag, caught in the seam, which might have been torn from a note. If she had arranged to meet whoever it was, then you might have noticed something in what she said or did."  
  
The elderly woman shook her head. "I'm afraid not. My niece would never have been so lacking in propriety as to run off for some private meeting. She always told me when she was leaving the house, even for her little writing group."  
  
Carefully, ever so carefully, Leonie asked, "Her writing group?"  
  
The woman nodded. "I've always held that such interests are reasonable enough - why, look at the number of female authors who have been published in quite reputable journals! Not that I ever expected Susannah to reach so high, of course, but I really felt that it was quite permissible."  
  
Leonie frowned. "Emmeline Lucent was another of them, wasn't she?"  
  
Maher's breath slowed, and he felt his hand tighten on the cup. Emmeline Lucent had been one of the other victims, and if she had been part of this writing society, then they at last had a thread of connection between the victims.  
  
"Oh, yes." The elderly woman nodded blandly. "I heard that she'd been attacked by a pickpocket or someone like that, though. I'm really not sure she was a proper member of the society, Miss Valedane. Though I must say, poor Susannah was very struck by her death. She said that the whole society was."  
  
"Do you suppose . . ." Maher asked.  
  
Leonie cut across him, "That Susannah might have been investigating her death? I suppose that is possible."  
  
"There!" Mrs Fanshaw put down her teacup with a brisk _tink_. "I've always held that those disreputable stories about private detectives were a positive menace to society!" She seemed almost relieved, Maher thought. "Poor Susannah, trying to do her best for her friend, led into danger . . ." Her hand trembled, and for a moment her face seemed to sag, the overpowering control fracturing and the grief behind it showing through.   
  
"Of course," Leonie's voice was gentle, soothing, "we can't be sure of any of this. It is no more than theory, and we would not want to try and obstruct the police. Still, if we could contact some other members of this writing circle, perhaps we could find out if they knew anything about it . . ."

* * *

On a bench in the nearby park, Leonie opened her notebook, removed the fussy little gold pencil, and checked the list of names again. "They all match, yes."  
  
Maher frowned at it. "I can't understand why nobody's found this before. The police _must_ have looked into it already."  
  
Leonie was already shaking her head. "Did you see how Mrs Fanshaw reacted when we talked about the writing circle? Positively defending her openmindedness in even letting Susannah belong to it. It may be permitted, but it wasn't the sort of thing she was going to even think of mentioning to," she paused, to give a dramatic shudder, "policemen."  
  
"That doesn't make sense," Maher pointed out.  
  
"I know it doesn't." Leonie shrugged. "However, it's part of how things are here at the moment. It may well change. In the meantime, both angels and demons can hide a lot of goings on in the areas of society that nobody notices, because people just don't _think_ about them. Everybody knows this, everybody thinks that, so people believe that some things _cannot_ happen, when the truth is only that they're not expected to happen."  
  
"That is one of the most tangled sentences I have ever heard," Maher said.  
  
"You understand what I'm getting at, though."  
  
Maher nodded. "I understand, yes." He watched the way the afternoon light lay on her hair, the soft line of chin and cheek. "All five of the non-prostitute victim names are on there?"  
  
Leonie tapped the names with the tip of her gloved finger. "There, there, there, there, and there. And this woman here, and that's the entire society."  
  
Maher leaned in a little closer. "And none of them noticed they were all being murdered?"  
  
Leonie shrugged. "That's the more difficult part to explain - but look here, we have Emmeline Lucent dying on the twelth, then a meeting of their society on the fifteenth, then the three prostitutes dying on the seventeenth, the eighteenth, and the nineteenth, then another meeting on the twenty-second, and then the other four victims in the next four days, with Susannah Fanshaw being the last."  
  
"And it's the twenty-seventh today." Maher nodded. "Should we go and bodyguard the remaining one, do you think?" He couldn't keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. "This Sally Nirren."  
  
Leonie was frowning at the list. "Call me paranoid if you like . . ."  
  
"Heaven forbid!" Maher said. "So far you've been far more pleasant than I could have hoped for."  
  
Leonie paused, and looked at him under her eyelashes, as though trying to decipher that comment. Finally, she repeated, "Call me paranoid if you like, but I can't help wondering if the only surviving person might be behind it all."  
  
"It's just a writing circle," Maher argued. "What sort of evil depraved person would want to join that?"  
  
"What sort of evil depraved person would want to _kill_ them all?" Leonie demanded.  
  
"Perhaps . . ." Maher's voice slowed. "Perhaps they were writing about vampires."  
  
Leonie considered. "That's actually a very good point. But in that case, how did people find out about them?"  
  
"About vampires?" Maher asked. "Well, there was that novel by Bram Stoker earlier this year. It was a load of rubbish. Everybody knows that vampires don't really act like that, and certainly they aren't so . . ." He picked through words disdainfully. "Romantic."  
  
"Hm." Leonie toyed with the list. "I meant rather how anybody found out about the writing circle, but you have a point. Vampires have become somewhat . . . interesting, after that book."  
  
Their eyes met. Maher was the first to say it. "Somebody's using that. Someone is playing on this new popular conception of the vampire."  
  
Leonie nodded. "That makes sense. Vampires tend to mean Saminga, though." Her lips pursed together in disgust. "I've never heard him described to me as a Prince with intelligence."  
  
"I think you may be judging too hastily," Maher said.  
  
Leonie blinked. "Hasty, moi?"  
  
Maher snorted. "Think about it. Are you going to assume that every single Servitor of Saminga is as unintelligent as their Prince? It's quite possible that one of them might be sneaky enough to try this."  
  
"Sneaky, yes," Leonie said. "But _romantic_?"  
  
Maher had to half smile. "Very well, you have a point there. Shall we take this all back to Adelbert, and see if he's got anywhere? He did say that he had his own avenues to pursue."  
  
Leonie giggled, and took Maher's arm again as she rose from the bench. "Which probably means we're going to have to sit through half an hour of explanation first before he actually _tells_ us anything."  
  
"Elohim," Maher sighed.  
  
"Exactly," Leonie muttered in tones of absolute understanding. 

* * *

As they entered Kings College, they passed another man on the way out. It wouldn't have been anything important, except that he was worse-dressed than the students who were jostling along with them, and far worse-dressed than the lecturers. Maher had to slip an arm around Leonie's waist to keep her upright as the unshaven lout jarred his way past, forcing a student to stagger against the delicate Mercurian.  
  
Leonie coughed. "Maher, I'm not made of glass, you know."  
  
He released her carefully. "Oh, I'm just playing my societal part." He wished he believed it. She was far too distracting in the middle of a highly dangerous mission. The thoughts of taking her hands in his, staring deep into her eyes, and . . .  
  
"What are the police doing here?" Leonie asked, a tone of worry shading into her voice.  
  
Maher snapped back to full attention. "Let me see." He steered her into an archway, out of the throng of students, and peered over their heads. Yes, one of the police hansom cabs, two policemen, and . . .  
  
"Professor Severson!" he shouted, waving a hand. Leonie squawked something behind him as he grabbed her wrist and began to forge through the crowd at right angles, dragging her behind him as he made for the stooped Elohite being escorted by two policemen towards the cab. "Professor Severson! What's going on?"  
  
Adelbert turned to look back towards him, and murmured something to his policemen escorts, who were kind enough to stop. Maher caught up with them, Leonie still trailing behind him and desperately trying to keep her skirts clear of the puddles and mud. "Professor Severson . . ."  
  
"Kindly stop repeating my name. I am quite well aware of it." The Elohite's tone was as acerbic as ever. "I have been arrested on suspicion of murder. This is, of course, not true."  
  
"I must remind you," panted the short, weasel-faced police inspector who was tagging along behind, "that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you."  
  
"Yes, yes. Quite." The Elohite turned back to Maher. "You will find your essay in the usual place in my office, Matthew. Please study the comments and be prepared to rewrite as necessary. Our good police will probably have already moved Jenkins' body - poor man, poor man - and I hope that soon they will have discovered the genuine culprit - so try not to make more disturbance than necessary. Continue the listed course of studies. I will be in contact."  
  
"Ain't no bail for murder like that," muttered one of the two policemen.  
  
"If you have quite finished, sir," the inspector interjected, "we should be on our way."  
  
"Yes, yes." The Elohite considered a moment longer, then shrugged, and let the two policemen hand him up into the cab. The driver leaned forward, and his whip flicked across the horse's back, jolting it into action. More mud flicked off the street as the cab spun away, and Leonie muttered something inaudible as she failed to pull her skirts out of the way in time.  
  
The inspector turned to Maher. "And your name would be, sir?"  
  
"Matthew Shell," Maher replied hastily, mind still numb. What in the name of God could have happened? Clearly Adelbert couldn't have committed murder. "I'm a student of Professor Severson's."  
  
"Hmph." The inspector fiddled with a brown-covered notebook. "Well, sir, perhaps we could just have a word with you? Perhaps away from your young lady. Not the sort of thing for a nice young lady to be hearing about, I'm afraid, not at all."  
  
Leonie somehow dimpled, fluttered her eyelashes, and looked shocked at the same time. "I'm sure I wouldn't want to be in the way, inspector. Perhaps if you take Matthew upstairs to ask him about it? I'll be in the reception area downstairs." The quick glance she shot Maher suggested that she would be nowhere of the sort.  
  
The inspector looked relieved. "That's very good of you, miss. Shouldn't be long. Just need a couple of questions answered." He began herding Maher towards the stairs up to the next floor in tight little movements, shoes squeaking in the mud with the unmistakeable sound of new leather.  
  
Maher allowed himself to be directed, focusing as he tried to gain a sense of the inspector's honour. The Symphony rang clearly, letting him _see_. Yes, there was bigotry, and yes, there was hastiness in judgement (and was that too similar to his own, a voice whispered) but there was a striving for justice, a hunger to protect and to keep the public safe, an unbending service to the Law. And to the Queen, God bless her.  
  
They came to a halt outside the Elohite's rooms. Maher asked, again, "What actually happened?"  
  
"Hrmph," the inspector repeated. "Just let me check the facts with you, sir. Now, were you here at all earlier today?"  
  
"I was, actually." Maher concentrated on an expression of open-faced innocence as he described how yes, he had been by to deliver an essay to Professor Severson, and no, nothing had been at all unusual.  
  
The inspector took notes, and nodded. "Yes, sir, this all agrees with what we'd heard from the servants. Well, I can tell you that it looks very much as though Professor Severson killed his servant earlier."  
  
Maher didn't have to struggle to look shocked. "You must be joking, inspector! Why should the Professor want to do something like that?"  
  
The inspector chewed on one end of his moustache. It was, Maher decided, a quite repulsive habit. "I have no idea at the moment, sir. Possibly we may find out that he was blackmailing him. Shocking thing it was, to be sure. Young woman visiting the lecturer next door heard it and raised the alarm. Fortunately she didn't see anything. A dreadful sight it was, sir, really dreadful. Jenkins had had his head quite beaten in with his own serving tray. Really an appalling scene. We found Professor Severson where he'd collapsed after doing it. Oh, no question about it at all, sir, his hands were still all bloody." He leaned in a little. "It might have been one of those, what do you call it, homicidal epilepsy things. We're going to have to keep him behind bars for his own protection, sir, that we are."  
  
Maher chewed the inside of his lip to stop himself making several extremely pointed comments about planted evidence, circumstantial evidence, and the idiocy of fat-headed officers of the law who couldn't bother to think about the facts of the case, and how he'd almost prefer some Dominican hyenas, who might at least have some vestige of common sense. "Thank you very much, inspector. I can't help hoping, though, that there is some other reason - perhaps he was framed?"  
  
The inspector's look softened. Clearly he considered Maher to be speaking out of affection for the Professor. "Well, I can assure you we'll do our best to look into it, sir."  
  
"Who was the woman who heard it?" Maher asked. Possibly there might be some information there about when the fight started.  
  
"Oh, I'm afraid she's already gone, sir." The inspector consulted his notebook. "A Miss Sally Nirren. We'll be checking up with her, of course . . ."  
  
The inspector's voice retreated to the background buzzing of a large bluebottle, as several facts clicked into polished alignment in Maher's mind. Adelbert must have been getting too close to the truth from some other avenue, and this Sally Nirren woman had decided to remove him. Possibly with the help of a confederate, possibly alone. At last, a definite clue. A definite quarry.  
  
" . . . and we'll get into contact with you if there's anything else. Thank you very much, sir." The inspector nodded briskly, and trotted back off down the corridor, shoes still squeaking.  
  
The door opened, and Leonie peered out from behind it, hissing, "Hsst!"  
  
"That's very obvious," Maher muttered, slipping in and closing the door quickly. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that hissing can be heard halfway down the corridor?"  
  
"It wasn't in our standard briefing." Leonie looked a touch miffed, for some reason. "Can't think why."  
  
Maher glanced around the neatly ordered study, noting the large spatter of blood and confusion in the middle of it. "Do you know what we're supposed to be looking for?"  
  
"Notes on this problem, I'm assuming," Leonie replied. She began moving around the left edge of the room, her right hand holding her skirts well clear of the pooling mess on the floor. "When he gave us those papers, he put the rest back in his desk, didn't he?"  
  
Maher's nostrils flared at the copper-stink of the blood, and he nodded, circling the room in the opposite direction to join her by the desk. "He did. It probably has a complicated engineering Lightning lock on the drawer, or something like that."  
  
Leonie wrinkled up her nose charmingly. "Well, there's also a folder on the desk here, marked, "Matthew Shell."  
  
"Aha!" Maher seized it. "The Purloined Letter technique."  
  
"The what?" Leonie asked.  
  
He smiled knowingly. "The technique of hiding something in plain view and therefore making sure that nobody will notice it."  
  
"We did," she pointed out.  
  
"Ah," he said, "but we were _meant_ to." He untied the binding on the file, and began flicking through the papers. "Yes, look, these are his notes on the murders. Here are the locations, here are the facts on the murder victims. We shouldn't have any problems."  
  
Leonie nodded enthusiastically. "We'll be able to track this Sally Nirren, then."  
  
Maher's eyes narrowed. " _And_ we know that she framed Adelbert."  
  
Leonie blinked. "We do?"  
  
Maher paused, remembering that he hadn't passed that on yet. "We do." He gave her a brief precis of the inspector's information as he resealed the file. "She must have identified him as a threat to her plans." He couldn't help feeling excited. Life was imitating his favourite fiction in the best possible way.   
  
Then the stink of blood reminded him of just how far that imitation had gone, and he glanced at the drying pool on the floor, and felt ashamed of himself.  
  
Leonie had been thinking, clearly, and she nodded as she followed his glance. "Precisely. Double proof."  
  
"Ah," he said neutrally, hoping she would continue. It was all very well to admit to ignorance, but it was much more pleasant not to have to do so.  
  
She pointed delicately at the drying blood. "We heard no Symphonic disturbance, and we weren't _that_ far away. Adelbert can't have heard anything either, or he'd have done something, and he must have been just nearby if he managed to leave those notes all labelled for you. So, logically, there wasn't a Symphonic disturbance."  
  
Maher eyed her. "Are you sure that you don't read Conan Doyle?"  
  
She blushed. "Well, one of the Cherubim I know met him. _Anyhow_ , being able to kill someone barehanded without making a Symphonic disturbance is something that the Balseraphs of Saminga can do, or someone else with that attunement, which agrees with the vampire-Samingan theory."  
  
Maher actually smiled at her, as he tucked the file under his arm. "Excellently deduced."  
  
She returned the smile, then glanced back at the blood and sighed, the cheerfulness slipping from her face like water. "I just wish that it wasn't necessary."  
  
Maher nodded, leading the way back round the room to the door. "So do I. But we can stop it happening again."  
  
He could feel her eyes on his back, and the renewed strength in her voice, as she said, "Yes. That sounds awfully platitudinous, but yes. Yes, we can."   
  
She paused. "Thank you, Maher."

* * *

The house that Adelbert had listed for Sally Nirren was situated a little north of Baker Street, its high walls topped with sharp iron palings. The light drizzle, swept by the wind, hissed against Leonie's parasol and rattled against the leaves of some garden behind those walls. Light showed behind the curtains of the ground-floor rooms, but not higher up in the house.  
  
"It's a bit early for her to have lit the gas," Maher commented. The two of them were standing at the street corner, and he was holding a notebook open to give them a convenient excuse to have paused.  
  
Leonie looked up at the grey, overcast sky. "Not really. It'd be too dark in there without _some_ form of light, and if she has the gas lit, then she has to draw the curtains, or everyone and his brother will be able to see inside." She paused, then asked, in the same conversational tone, "So what do we do now?"  
  
Maher considered. "She could be being used as a pawn. We have absolutely no way of knowing, without finding out more about her. What did the woman in the corner shop say?"  
  
Leonie shook her head. "Nothing much. They're hardly of a social class to mix. Apparently "Miss Sally" is very nice and polite whenever she comes by, and has been living there - the place is rented - for the last three years. There's a housekeeper who lives in a flat in the upper part of the house, a Mrs Smethers, Margaret Smethers, but she's nearly deaf and nearly blind and not useful for much more than keeping half an eye on the maids - who come in every morning, do the cleaning, and leave a cold supper."  
  
"That's a lot of cold suppers," Maher sighed.  
  
Leonie peered up at him over her shoulder. "Was that a joke?"  
  
"Heavens, no," Maher said hastily. "Just thinking aloud. I take it that she eats out most days?"  
  
Leonie nodded, blonde hair shimmering prettily. "She must have a well-paid occupation or independent private means to be subsidising all this."  
  
Maher flipped the notebook shut. "Or be a demon."  
  
"Well, yes, there is that," Leonie admitted. "One of us is going to have to go in there to find out."  
  
Maher's spine stiffened. "Both of us. I'm not going to let you go in there alone, and I'm not sure that I'd be able to spot anything alone." He smiled at her. "That's both common sense and Malakite opinion, by the way."  
  
"Oh, well." Leonie shrugged, but he had the impression that she was pleased. "How can I defy common sense and Malakite opinion together? So what's our excuse?"  
  
"I thought I'd leave that up to you," he said, blithely walking her towards the wrought-iron gate. "You're the diplomat."  
  
She tilted her head. "Mmmm. Very well, then, our Sally can't have managed to keep track of the entire writing circle. I'm a friend of Susannah - that's Susannah Fanshaw - just returned from Brighton, who's trying to find out what happened to her poor dear friend. You're my," she looked up from under her eyelashes, "my cousin, and you insisted on coming with me because of all these appalling murders."  
  
Maher blinked. "Surely humans wouldn't be _that_ protective, would they?"  
  
Leonie shrugged. "I think it'll hold water. Sometimes an irrational explanation for behaviour goes down more easily than a rational one." She brushed a twisted spiral of the gate with one finger, then shook off the drops of water that clung to her grey glove. "Just let me do the talking?"  
  
Maher grunted. "No problem." He held the gate open for her. "Oh, and if there is trouble, just run this way. There weren't any back gates, remember."  
  
Leonie sighed. "We're going to be diplomatic. There won't _be_ trouble."  
  
Maher decided not to comment on that.   
  
Their feet crunched in the wet gravel as they walked up to the house. Intensifying rain spattered against the leaves of the beech trees that stood on either side of the door, skittering like gravel on glass. Leonie made a small moue, and tilted her parasol into the wind, shielding her upper body. The fragile frippery was inappropriate for the weather, but kept her hair and face marginally dry. Maher was forced to hold onto his top hat with his left hand, as he took the heavy door-knocker in his right hand and banged it against the door.  
  
"Gently," Leonie whispered disapprovingly.   
  
Maher caught a gust of rain directly in the eyes, snorted, blinked, and knocked again.  
  
There was a shuffling on the other side of the door, and a sudden flare of light through the tinted glass panels, which settled down to the steady flicker of a gas-lamp. Bolts clicked as they were drawn back, and the door opened a couple of inches, to show an old woman's face beyond. Her back was as rigidly straight as any Seraph's, and her apron a spotless white over a rustling black dress. She regarded the pair through rheumy eyes, half-focusing somewhere a foot between them, and murmured, "Yes?"  
  
Leonie smiled charmingly. "Good afternoon. I'm afraid we aren't expected, but I had hoped to speak to Miss Nirren, if she's in."  
  
There was a pause, then the old lady said, "Please. Wait a moment. And I will go and see if the mistress is in." The pauses in her words seemed accidental and not even obvious to her, and her gaze wandered again before she shut the door in the faces of the two angels.  
  
"Clearly something wrong," Leonie muttered.  
  
"Definitely." Maher got another faceful of rain. "A housekeeper in a decent part of town should have better manners than that."  
  
Leonie turned to eye him. "No, no, I meant with her eyesight."  
  
"You have a parasol," Maher pointed out. "I don't. And I think someone sited a drainpipe directly above here."  
  
"Don't worry." Leonie's voice was far too cheerful. "You aren't made of soap, you won't melt."  
  
Maher was working on a suitable rejoinder when the door creaked open again, and he braced himself to shove his foot in it if the housekeeper seemed about to refuse them entry. She blinked at them, however, and said, "Do. Come in." Her gaze wandered to Leonie's parasol.   
  
Leonie smiled again, and blithely stepped in, wiping her feet on the doormat and tapping her parasol to shake some of the raindrops off. She caught the housekeeper's gaze. "Is anything the matter?"  
  
The housekeeper focused for a moment. "Miss Nirren. Collects parasols. I do beg your pardon for having troubled you miss." The words came out like a scatter of raindrops, and a moment later she was blinking again in near-blindness, taking Leonie's cloak and Maher's greatcoat, and hanging them up in a cubbyhole next to the door. Maher paused to glance into it, and it did indeed have an umbrella-stand with a dozen parasols of different colours.   
  
The housekeeper coughed. "Please come this way." Her gait was as slow as her speech, though Maher could only imagine the sensations of age that might ache in her bones and wither her muscles.  
  
Leonie gave him a very slight nod, then followed the old woman. Maher followed in turn, eyes flicking down the gas-lit corridor. A stairwell to his right, empty and quiet, the wood smelling of fresh polish. A room to his left, no light showing from under the door. The corridor itself, wallpapered in something white and blue, with designs that seemed to crawl in the gaslight and shift into something obscene.   
  
The housekeeper opened a door at the end of the corridor. "In here. Please. Miss. And sir." She coughed, dryly, and stood there in her white and black, dim eyes unfocused.  
  
There was a laugh from beyond the door, and light streamed out into the dark corridor as it swung open. A woman's voice called, "Yes, please do come in! I am so sorry that Margaret kept you waiting."  
  
Leonie stepped into the room, and a moment later Maher followed. It was a startling blaze of light, a violent contrast to the half-lit corridor outside. Gas-lamps had been turned fully open, and blazed whitely in the corners of the room, reflecting from the cream-papered walls and throwing all shadows inwards towards the centre, where the woman who had called out to them sat. She was wearing a deep blue gown, ornamented with ivory lace at throat and wrists, and her mahogany hair fell in a long careless tumble down her back, draping over the corner of the sofa that she lay on, vivid against its pale gold silk upholstery. Her green-grey eyes moved over Leonie quickly enough, a casual glance that considered and disregarded, and rested on Maher in a way that Leonie's never had.   
  
Leonie's breath caught in her throat, and the woman's gaze turned to her. "I beg your pardon?" Even her voice was richer than Leonie's, gentle and cadenced.  
  
Leonie blinked, and Maher was fairly sure that she changed her subject mid-sentence. "Good heavens. Is that a _Worth_ gown? I'm quite speechless with jealousy, Miss Nirren."  
  
Sally Nirren laughed. "It is. Straight from Paris. You have quite the eye for clothing, Miss . . ." She let the sentence trail off into a question, arching her eyebrows curiously. Thin eyebrows, Maher noticed. Elegant, thin, arched eyebrows like the ink sketches a friend of his had brought back from Japan.   
  
"Valedane." Leonie smiled. "Leonie Valedane. I do beg your pardon for disturbing you, but I'm afraid I only got back from Brighton today, and I had the _most_ distressing news."  
  
"Oh?" Sally Nirren sat up, and tossed her hair back again. Maher found himself watching the line of her body, neck, chin. She returned his gaze for a moment, eyes smoky agates, before looking back towards Leonie. "I am sorry. Can I help in any way?"  
  
"It's Susannah." Leonie raised one hand, then let it fall. "Susannah Fanshaw, she was one of my friends. I only just got back to hear that she had died. Some of her letters had mentioned you . . ."  
  
There was something wrong. Maher could sense that quite distinctly, even through the distraction of Sally's presence. Leonie was covering up a reaction, and Sally was attempting to confuse him. He focused on her, and resonated - and heard nothing. He felt himself frown, and tried to smooth over the expression.  
  
Sally glanced at him. "I am so sorry. I can see that she was close to both of you. And yes, I had heard that she'd been killed. It's tragic." She brushed at the corner of one eye with a manicured hand, nails glittering in the light. "I was very fond of dear Susannah too, ever since we met. But I'm afraid there really isn't any more that I know."  
  
Leonie shook her head. "Oh no, please don't think that I'm here to try and ask for some sort of scandal. I just wondered if you had dear Susannah's notebooks. We were working on a novel together, you see . . . or did you not know that she was a writer?"  
  
Sally smiled. It was a slow, delighted smile that made Maher remember cats sizing up bowls of cream. "Oh, _yes_. I always thought it was the most charming ambition. I don't believe that I have anything like that, no. Only dear Susannah's letters. But I can quite understand your wanting to ask after them." She sighed, the smile fading like a summer dawn. "What a pity. All Susannah's talent, lost . . ."  
  
"Yes." Leonie's voice was drier than Maher had ever heard it. "A great pity." Outside the window, rain whispered on the glass and leaves. "I . . . well, I know it would only be vanity publishing, but I was wondering if perhaps some publishing house might be willing to print some of her works, if they were completed, you see. I feel it would be a fitting memoriam . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she bowed her head, closing her eyes in an attempt to stem tears.  
  
Maher realised this was his cue. He stepped forward, putting a comforting arm over Leonie's shoulders. "There, there. It's not as if it was your fault, dear. We can only hope that the police soon catch that murdering devil." He looked across. "I do apologise for my language in the presence of a lady, Miss Nirren."   
  
Sally Nirren's eyes were the colour of wet mossy stone now, and curiously vague. "Yes, I agree. It is the most _awful_ tragedy. We must all hope that the police manage to catch the criminal." She chewed her lower lip, charmingly. "I am so dreadfully sorry, but I'm afraid that I'm expecting another visitor shortly. I don't like to hurry you both out, but I really must ask if you have anything else you need to know."  
  
Leonie breathed, "Make our excuses and get out of here," into Maher's shoulder. She was shuddering in his grasp, in what might have been taken for controlled tears.  
  
Maher patted her on the back again. "Quite understandable, Miss Nirren. I'm very sorry that we had to trouble you, but my cousin - well, I'm sure that you understand." He gave Sally Nirren a brief smile, and was astonished at the ferocity of the one that she returned. There was something in it that suggested conflict, and strength, and fierceness - the passion of flight, and the curved energy of dark wings. He wondered, absently, what her muscles were like beneath that silken gown.   
  
Sally Nirren reached out a delicate hand, and tugged the bell-rope that hung by the couch. Somewhere deeper in the house, a bell rang. "I do appreciate this. And I'm so glad to have met a friend of dear Susannah's. Don't worry, Margaret will show you out."  
  
The elderly housekeeper was already standing in the part-open doorway and blinking, the light throwing her shadow on the floor behind her to blend with the deeper shadows of the hallway. "This way. Please." One withered hand bobbed in the direction of the main door.  
  
Maher nodded again to Sally Nirren, and with a cousinly arm still over Leonie's shoulder, he led her down the corridor. They paused at the cubbyhole by the door to collect their capes, and Leonie whispered, "Cover me from the housekeeper."  
  
Maher turned at that, and gave his best boyish smile to the housekeeper. "I'm sorry to have called you out from your work on such a dreadful afternoon . . ." He peered out through the glass panel, to where the overcast sky had become a matt black. "Evening, then. We didn't plan our visit at all, I'm afraid." Behind him, he could hear Leonie scrabbling with something, and he made a mental note to teach her to be a bit quieter about it.  
  
The housekeeper vaguely focused on him. "Quite all right. Sir. Think nothing of it."   
  
Leonie stepped up next to him, her parasol tucked under her arm and cape. "It was very good of you. Please give our regards to your mistress." She dabbed at one eye with a gloved finger. "I only wish . . . but I'm sure that she understands."  
  
The housekeeper nodded, but didn't speak again as she undid the chain on the door and held it wide enough for them to step outside. It was still raining. Leonie - for some reason - didn't raise her parasol again, simply snuggling under her cape. Maher raised his top hat to the housekeeper as she closed the door behind them, and they began to walk down the drive towards the gate.  
  
"Aren't you going to be fashionable and stop yourself getting rained on?" he said, a touch snidely. He could already feel the damp settling through his clothing and into his bones.  
  
"It would be a bad idea," Leonie said cheerfully. Her spirits seemed to have taken a marked upswing.  
  
Maher snorted. "Oh? And why's that?"  
  
Leonie gave him a perky little grin, and he couldn't help but respond to it. There was something cheering to her presence after the alternating light and shadow of that house. "Because even someone as blind as that housekeeper might notice if my parasol is red and white with a pink and grey outfit. There were enough in that rack that nobody's going to notice mine as the odd one out if they should _check_ there, and certainly that Lilim isn't going to wear a red and white parasol with a blue and ivory dress, but I'd rather not flaunt it."  
  
Maher felt his stomach clench, as he remembered some of the thoughts he'd been having, and he said rather flatly, "Lilim."  
  
Leonie paused, hand on the gate, and perhaps out of charity she didn't look at him as she said, "Lilim, yes. Sworn to Lust. Born in Shal-Mari, all the usual mucky stuff, definitely involved in this, and associating with a Calabite of Death. That has to be one of the oddest pairings yet. What _do_ they talk about in bed, I wonder?"  
  
Maher swung the gate open with more force than was strictly necessary, and bit back on his words. His voice was clipped. "She's a Lilim. I doubt they spend much time talking."  
  
Leonie shrugged a little as she stepped through. "Some of them are tolerable. Personally, I can't stand Lust. I suppose Death might explain the vampire connection . . ."  
  
The Symphony crackled and hummed with the unleashing of a resonance, and the gate shattered under Maher's hand, shards of metal spinning outwards like lethal drops of rain. Leonie gasped as two knifelike splinters of iron sank into her side, and fell to her knees on the gravel of the drive, a dark stain blossoming on her jacket and spreading down towards her hip.   
  
Maher's mind noted, _Calabite_ , without waiting for him to think it through consciously, and he was already moving, throwing himself into a dive towards Leonie to get them both out of the line of view of the house. Peripheral vision noted a figure under the left-hand tree by the door, one with hand still raised, before the body's automatic reaction sent him and Leonie rolling through the open gateway and onto the pavement of the street outside. Rain lashed against his face until he had to blink to see clearly, and Leonie's parasol lay next to them, incongruously gaudy against the wet pavement.  
  
Leonie moaned something, but he wasn't listening. They'd clearly been identified, and the other side was obviously putting priority on getting them out of the way before they could tell anybody. Logically, therefore, _his_ priority had to be to get out of the immediate battlezone and work out what to do. It would be dissonant to run from a fight. It would be _bloody stupid_ for him to stand there and face an unknown enemy, and get himself and the Mercurian killed before they could pass on their information or use it.  
  
The remains of the gate blew apart, and he could hear two pairs of running footsteps crunching in the gravel.  
  
Dissonance be damned, he'd explain it personally to Michael later if he had to. He stuck the parasol under one arm, swung Leonie over his shoulder, and made for the nearest dark alley. 

* * *

Leonie's blood was warm and sticky against Maher's hand as he swung her down to try and stand upright again. "Can you stand?" His voice was urgent as he listened for footsteps following them. "Leonie, concentrate. Listen to me. Can you stand upright?" He had carried her for three streets and two alleys now, and was hoping that he'd lost any pursuers.  
  
Leonie swayed. "Gah." Her eyes were hazy with the pain. "Ow."  
  
Maher nodded encouragingly, and slipped his arm round her, feeling the stiff boning of her corset under her dress. "Good girl."  
  
"The name is Leonie," the Mercurian muttered, swaying again. "Need to Sing healing."  
  
The alleyway that they stood in was dank and wet, with the overhanging roofs cutting off some of the force of the rain, and streetlamps burning dimly at either end. Candles and gas-lamps glowed behind dirty windows, flickering at odd moments, and some raucous giggling and piano music came from behind a more brightly-lit house a little further on.  
  
Maher shook his head. "They'll be following us - they wouldn't have tried to kill us then if they didn't think that they could deal with us permanently. If you Sing, they'll hear it." He considered. "I can get us into one of the houses along here. If we give them enough money, they should be able to forget all about us."  
  
"I've got a better idea." Leonie leaned against him, and he realised that she was worse hurt than he had thought, to be needing his help so badly. "In there." She nodded towards the brightly-lit house. "Say you want a private room, I'll giggle, nobody will look twice."  
  
He snorted. "That's a brothel. You want to hide from a Servitor of Lust in a _brothel_?"  
  
Leonie laughed weakly, then cut herself off, gasping for breath. "Yes, she'll think that too, won't she? And it'll be a lot less obvious than us trying to hide out in an ordinary family house."  
  
Maher shook his head, as he helped her down the street towards the brothel. "I'm sure that this is unhygienic."  
  
Leonie didn't reply to that.  
  
The wave of sound and light slammed against them as Maher swung the heavy door open, in a wash of laughter and stale perfume, rouge and petticoats, gin and heat. Several women - whores, Maher corrected himself - were sprawled on a tattered chaise-longue, fawning over the man at their centre, his dark clothing a stark contrast to their gaudier dresses and powdered faces.   
  
In the corner, an older bawd raised her eyes from a battered ledger and struggled out from her desk, her pinched face glowing from an over-application of rouge. She was tightly laced into her blue silk gown, bodice struggling to contain the weight of an ageing pair of breasts, the whole balanced through some miracle of interior corseting.  
  
Giggles racketed from the few women currently unattached, and two of them cast bold-eyed looks at Maher, their bosoms heaving with an excess of lust or avarice. Before he could stop himself, he turned away from their painted faces to look at the Mercurian clinging to him.  
  
The older woman approached, flicking aside the skirt of her gown from a puddle of spilt gin on the floor that was soaking into the carpet. "Wanting a room for the night, sir? We do very reasonable rates." The alcohol had raddled her face, and her well-displayed bosom was shot with coarse blue veins, but the dusting of white face-powder over her skin seemed to give her some sublime confidence of invulnerability. "Very reasonable." She smiled, and dark gaps showed in her yellow-toothed grin.  
  
 _An outpost of Hell,_ Maher thought. The gaslight in the corner flared briefly, illuminating the whole scene with painful clarity, filth and noise and age and decay. It sickened him.  
  
Leonie's fingers tightened on his arm in a pinch that was actually painful -- he hadn't thought that she had it in her -- and he forced a lofty sneer. "Your best room. We are not to be disturbed." He reached into his pocket with his free hand, and tossed her a sovereign.  
  
The woman grinned again, and nodded servilely. "Just at the head of the stairs there, sir! It's very nice, you and your pretty lady will find everything you want there. Just ring the bell if you should need anything else or anyone else." Her titter might once have been a chime of laughter, when she was younger, but now it was a coarse sound, harsh as the wind outside.  
  
Maher nodded, not trusting himself to say more. He felt Leonie leaning further into him as he made his way up the stairs. They groaned and trembled under him, each tread slippery under his feet.  
  
The room which the brothel-keeper had rented him was -- well, tawdry, was the kindest word that he could find, and he was tempted to be far less than kind. Old perfume was a stink in the air, mixed with the smells of sweat and sex. A dimmed gaslight burned over the bed, freshly lit and blue with impurities. The sheets on the bed, at least, were halfway clean, but the rest of the room was _stained_ with a patina of old dirt and usage, decorated with frills of red velvet.  
  
"How do they manage to live like this?" he muttered, as he helped Leonie sit down on the edge of the bed.  
  
"Oh, pooh," Leonie said, with a resurgence of spirit. "At least the sheets are clean. If you aren't going to let me Sing healing, I can at least have a few bandages."  
  
Maher began to pull a sheet from the bed, then hesitated, the cotton between his hands. "Won't they wonder a bit if they hear me tearing the sheets up?"  
  
Leonie blinked for a moment, then said, gently, "You paid them a sovereign, and you look as if you can pay more. They aren't going to intervene for short of me screaming that the Ripper's here again -- and even if I did, you could probably tip them extra to forget about it. Besides, tearing up the sheets is comparatively normal."  
  
Maher bit his lip on his next question, and concentrated on ripping the sheet into strips. "Should I ring for some water?" he asked. "That'll need washing."  
  
Leonie shook her head. "It's not as if it's going to get infected, after all, and the water won't be clean. Just wipe it and pad it. You have had medical training?"  
  
He snorted. "Just because you Servitors of Flowers go in for all that healing stuff doesn't mean that the rest of us can't learn anything about it. I've had battlefield medic training, which is a damn sight more useful now than any airy-fairy modern Freudian diarrhoea prevention." He was aware that he was being unkind, but he couldn't stop the words. He was supposed to be a _warrior_ , and he'd been unable to stop this civilian, this Flower, from getting herself hurt. It added insult to injury that he'd come out of it unscathed.  
  
Leonie sighed, and began to unbutton her bodice with hands that shook. She carefully peeled it back to show the white silk of her corset and petticoats, now stained with reaching dark tendrils from the wound in her side.  
  
"That's stupidly tight," Maher muttered as he sat down beside her and inspected it. "How the devil do you manage to do anything in it?"  
  
She managed a faint smile. "Don't blame me, blame society. And you'd better not cut it, or I'm going to have trouble looking "respectable" afterwards. If I unlace it, it'll help hold the padding on the wound when I do it back up."  
  
The Malakite considered several comments, but settled for, "You'd better do it, then. I don't pretend to understand all this dress nonsense."  
  
Leonie nodded, as if she'd expected it, and began to fiddle with a set of lacings. After a moment she gave a single agonised gasp, and the corset came loose, falling away from her naked torso. Her head tilted back as she set her teeth, eyes closing with the pain.  
  
The wound in her side, relieved from some of the tension, began to bleed again. Maher occupied himself with getting it neatly covered and bound, trying not to look too much at the rest of her body. Of course, it was only a human body, of course it meant nothing, of course he could perfectly well pursue a liaison if he cared about the person and it didn't harm anybody or interfere with his duties . . . But in the blue gaslight, aware of her scent under the stink of the brothel, with her blood on his hands, seeing the line of her body and breasts, everything was different. He felt her muscles tense under his hands as he tied the rough bandage, and looked up to meet her eyes.  
  
"There isn't time," she said.  
  
He let the self-contempt that he felt wash into his voice, trying to direct it elsewhere. It burned in him like the dissonance in his bones. "No, of course there isn't time to lie on the bed and roll around like a pair of . . . humans. You don't have to tell me that."  
  
She raised her hand to touch his cheek, a gesture that had an unexpected strength behind it. "That's not what I mean. There isn't time to talk about what you're feeling -- or what I'm feeling -- or why it changes anything or what it means. It doesn't have to mean sex, and even if it did, it wouldn't change what we have. You're my friend, Maher-shalal-hash-baz. My companion in God, my protector and my warrior, my love in the eyes of God as I love his light in the eyes of all beings. For you my healing, for you my life, for you my hope of eternity. And yes, your body is beautiful, and yes, dear Lady of the Flowers, I would enjoy holding you and tasting your skin. And no, we haven't time for that, or to say more than this. So we'll say it afterwards when we have time."  
  
He didn't reply. He didn't have the elegant words that she could find, or the eloquence to speak them, or even the clarity of vision she seemed to have. She might know her own heart, but he didn't understand himself well enough to be able to speak like that. And there was pride, too, his own pride -- to bare himself like that was foreign to him, and he spared a thought of pity for her that she had done it.  
  
"Maher?" she asked.  
  
He leaned forward, and brushed a kiss gently against her forehead. "Thank you," he said.   
  
She leaned into the embrace, reaching out to put an arm round his shoulders.   
  
"Now, tell me," he asked, withdrawing, "how do you do this corset thing up again?" He knew it was brittle, but he needed some way to draw a line between them, away from that near-painful intimacy that he had felt. He couldn't afford it, not now, not like this.  
  
Leonie gave him a half-pitying smile, and muttered, "God forbid you ever have a female vessel," as she set about buttoning herself up again.

* * *

Maher retreated into thought as Leonie fiddled with her fripperies, watching vaguely as she surveyed herself in front of the room's cracked mirror. Finally, he said, "I'm surprised they haven't caught up with us yet."  
  
Leonie turned, shaking out the skirts of her dress. The stains down the side were not too obvious, and could be hidden by careful arrangement of her cape. "It argues that they can't track us directly."  
  
Maher nodded. "So we'll have to track them." The prospect made him smile.  
  
Sweetly, Leonie inquired, "How?"  
  
He kept the smile. "I assume you have an appropriate Song? I mean, that _is_ why you stole the parasol, isn't it?"  
  
Leonie sighed. "I hate having my surprises spoiled. Yes, that is precisely why I took it. I'm just wondering how much we're missing of what's going on, mind."  
  
He nodded, and gestured for her to sit back down. "Lust and Death. A very unusual pairing. How much did you get when you resonated her?"  
  
Leonie took the invitation, fanning her skirts out as she sat on the edge of the bed. "I had the impression -- though, bear in mind, it's just an impression -- that she considered herself the more important figure in their pairing. But there was a shading that suggested the opposite, too . . ." She frowned. "Unless the other person thinks exactly the same thing."  
  
"Calabite of Death," Maher suggested. "Probably the one who killed Jenkins and framed Adelbert. That would explain the lack of Symphonic noise, if he has the Balseraph resonance, and the violence of the murder." He was finding it easier to think about, now that he could classify the murderer and plan a little vengeance.  
  
Leonie tilted her head. "So what are they both getting out of it?"  
  
"Ah." Maher considered the picture, tilting it in his head. "Let's assume they're planning to double-cross each other."  
  
"Not hard," Leonie murmured.  
  
Maher smiled at her. "So we end up with a, what shall we call it, a seductive vampire. A Dracula of the popular romances. Both their Princes might like the concept, but they're not going to accept an alliance to make them. They wouldn't even consider it. So we have these two little demons, meeting in some muddy alley . . ."  
  
"Poetic," the Mercurian muttered.  
  
" . . . And seeing how they could both get powerful." He was engrossed in the image by this time. "Planning to double-cross the other all along, and take it to their own Prince while claiming it was their own idea. The Calabite supplies some poor fool of a vampire, the Lilim sees to it that it's trained in all sorts of . . ." He waved his hand vaguely.  
  
"Vile arts of seduction," Leonie supplied sweetly.  
  
"And, presto." Maher finished. "The current situation. They must have spotted Adelbert's investigations and decided to neutralise him. But they didn't know about us."  
  
"So what are we going to do?" Leonie asked helpfully.  
  
He blinked. "You think it holds together?"  
  
"Oh, I'm certain of it." The Mercurian nodded. "It makes much too much sense not to. And we need to do whatever we're going to do fast, because they know we got away."  
  
"And do you have a plan?" Maher asked, a touch snappishly.  
  
Leonie smiled delightfully. "Now that you mention it -- yes."   
  
He leant back. "Enlighten me."  
  
"Well, think about it." Her voice was reasonable, and he wondered precisely what she was going to try and talk him into. "Both the Lilim and the Calabite were _there_ , at her house, which suggests they're using it as a base. Right?"  
  
He nodded. "Right. And the vampire's probably there, too, so they can keep an eye on it."  
  
She nodded. "But probably at least one of them is out at the moment looking for us. As soon as they can't find us, they'll need to move, if they've got any sense. They can't stay there when we might bring an assault team back with us." Leonie paused, blushing. "Well, _you_ might bring an assault team. I might try something else."  
  
Maher nodded impatiently, and gestured for her to continue. The dissonance from his escape was still there, like a buzz in the background, perpetually making him conscious of its presence.  
  
"Which is more important?" Her eyes were intent. "Killing them all, or making sure they won't try this sort of alliance again?"  
  
He had to consider that. Finally, he said, "Making sure they don't try this again. Much better that they don't collaborate. Of course, given they're responsible for multiple murders, I don't see that killing them is a _bad_ idea. Surely even Flowers have to see that."  
  
She wrinkled her nose. "Well, given that -- what do you think their reaction would be if they each thought that the other had betrayed them to angels?"  
  
Maher felt his mouth slowly curve into a delighted smile. "My god, woman, you're a genius!"  
  
Even in the dim light, he could see that she was blushing. "But this only works if we try talking to them first." She leaned forward, putting one hand on his shoulder. "Maher, you have to let me try talking first. This isn't going to work if you kill them out of hand. I'll let you fight them if it's necessary -- trust me, I'm not going to put more human lives at risk -- but we _have_ to talk first."  
  
Maher was still for a moment, analysing that statement. He had to admit that it did make sense, even if he suspected there was a logical flaw in it somewhere. "So how precisely do you plan to make them think that the other one betrayed them to angels?" It was an acceptance of what she said, and he knew it.  
  
Leonie smiled again, and he saw the true joy in her eyes. "Thank you."  
  
"As long as you understand that we may not have a choice, if the talking doesn't work."  
  
She nodded, face sober again. "Oh, I understand. Maher, I owe them kindness . . . but I owe it to the humans too. To know that I'd let them go to kill again would be something I couldn't tolerate." She shivered, as though the concept were terrifyingly real to her. "Not something I could tolerate at all."

* * *

Leonie's plan had centred on the fact that she had the Celestial Song of Shields -- and what did a person who was supposed to be peaceful for a way of life want with _that_ , Maher wondered jealously. Heaven only knew he'd requested it more than once.   
  
They were standing together in the centre of the room, and Leonie was waving around a strip of sheet which she'd lit at one of the gas-lamps. A thin trail of smoke was gathering in the air, adding yet another stink to the patina which coated the room.   
  
"Enough yet?" Maher asked, trying not to breathe in too heavily.  
  
Leonie dropped the twist of fabric to the ground, and raised her skirts so she could crush the smouldering end out under a heel. "I think so. Ready?"  
  
Maher simply raised his eyebrows. "Of course."  
  
She didn't look at him, but instead raised her hands and Sang. The Song rippled around them in a spreading chime like bells, that seemed to somehow catch on the smoke that veined the air, curdling it into a dark grey shadow around them.  
  
He couldn't help it. He laughed, the sound deep in his throat, as he let the vessel fall away, putting on Celestial form and feeling his wings stretch behind him to cleave the air. It was so _good_ to be once more in his true self, a Malakite unveiled.  
  
The Symphony jangled with the sound of his change, then throbbed again as beside him Leonie put on her angelic form. Her face was nearly the same, though somehow brighter and _clearer_ , but her white wings which beat the air were . . . beautiful. As Mercurian wings always were. As angels were.   
  
Leonie turned to him, and smiled. "Shall we dance?"  
  
"What a very human way to put it," he murmured, and spread his pinions. A single beat of his wings carried him through the ceiling of the room, up through another chamber where a fat man grunted as a young girl grovelled in front of him and scrabbled at his manhood, both of them ignorant of his presence, and up through the roof of the house. He hovered there, joined a fraction of a second later by Leonie.   
  
She was still smiling. "I told you it would work. It'll be at least five minutes before the Song wears off and anyone hears the Symphonic disturbance. We'll be at her house by then, and we'll have had time to go through most of it."  
  
Maher grunted, rising into the night sky to make for the house. The fogs of London seemed to writhe in the alleyways beneath him, their colors indistinct in the darkness, with sulphur-yellow nexuses centering on the occasional street-lamp. House-roofs rose out of the mists like islands, crusted with filth, dotted with pigeons. There was an odd silence to their flight, short as it was, with the street-sounds of London below belonging to a different world.   
  
Leonie pointed downwards, but he'd already identified the house. It stood amid the garden proudly, and the trees still tossed in the wind, branches rippling like a dark sea.   
  
He nodded to her, pointed to one of the attics on the east side of the roof, and the two of them streaked through the air towards it smoothly. They passed through the rain-slicked slate of the roof without pause, and paused once they stood inside the room. It was full of trunks and cases, which were covered in thick layers of choking dust. Maher spared a moment to be grateful that he didn't breathe in this form, before turning to Leonie and murmuring, "How long do we have?"  
  
She frowned. "About three minutes, I think." Her voice was similarly soft. "Go straight to the cellars and work up from there?"  
  
Maher nodded. "Traditional place to hide vampires, and they're being romantic traditionalists." He considered the layout of the mansion as they'd seen it. "We shouldn't be above any inhabited areas here. Straight down."  
  
Leonie nodded in response, folded her wings around her, and sank through the floor before he could suggest that he went first. Stifling a curse, he followed her, plunging down through the floors as though they were veils of mist.   
  
Layers of the house flashed around them: a disused bedroom, dry and smelling of mothballs, then a tiny study whose door had been bolted from the inside, and where the desk was smeared with blood, and then -- and they came to a grinding halt -- the kitchen. It was barely lit, with a branch of candles on the table at the centre scarcely sufficient to illuminate the room. Crouched beside the table, her skirts crumpled round her in stiff folds of darkness, knelt the old housekeeper. Her half-blind eyes were fixed on Leonie as though she could see her, and she extended one hand towards the angel in mute longing. The woman's mouth moved, but no sound emerged.  
  
"What are you _doing_?" Maher hissed. "We don't have time for this."  
  
Leonie ignored him. She leaned forward to touch the housekeeper's shoulders. "Rise," she sang. "Go from this house and find your daughter. She'll be glad to see you. Go now, Margaret. Go in God's grace."  
  
The old woman stumbled to her feet, rubbing at her eyes with one hand, then moved jerkily towards the back door. The candlelight set her shadow jolting on the wall as she set her hand on the doorhandle, and all the candle-flames jumped at the rush of wind as she swung the door open. It closed behind her silently, though Maher could still hear her footsteps hobbling down the passageway beyond, tap, slur, tap.  
  
He bit back rage. Leonie was doing her job -- and his job, too, because the humans must be protected, and civilians should be well out of combat range. There wasn't any point in arguing it, and it would only waste further time. "Further down," he said, and sank through the floor again.  
  
Below was a wine-cellar, whose neat order and lack of dust suggested that either a vampire was stored on the premises, or that the Lilim was a regular drinker. Or perhaps both. He waited for Leonie to pause beside him, and gestured around the room. A single candle guttered near the door, casting a thin, wan light over the racks of wine-bottles and flagstone floor.  
  
She nodded, taking his meaning at once, and quickly began to search down one side, looking for signs of coffins or other romantic habitations. _One good thing,_ he thought to himself. _If this vampire tries acting according to the Dracula book, he's going to be a lot easier to find._ He checked down the other side of the room, nostrils flaring at the faint ambient odour of alcohol. No coffins.  
  
Leonie called across, softly, "Nothing." Her voice was like silk on the air, barely audible.  
  
He caught her eye, shook his own head in acknowledgement of his lack of discovery, and moved to the entrance of the room, gesturing an emphatic _me first_.   
  
Beyond, the corridor was dark, without even the light of a candle. A brief whispering scuttle broke the silence for a moment, light as a dead leaf. The flagstoned floor led onwards into shadows, but the cool air suggested more cellars.  
  
"Rats?" Leonie breathed into Maher's ear.  
  
He gestured to quiet her, then glided into the darkness. His wings flexed slightly, their edges shifting silently in the dark air, but there was no actual effort involved; it was more of an instinctive thing, a twitch of readiness. He could hear the sound of forthcoming battle in his body, as all the Malakim of Michael did, and he smiled to himself. Whatever Leonie had in mind, he was going to have a chance to explain to this _filth_ exactly what a Virtue felt about their activities. He looked forward to it.  
  
As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see that there were two doors, one on either side of him, and that there was another room further on. The smell of flour and cheese scented the air, very faintly, and he half nodded to himself. Dried goods cellar. A possibility.  
  
A sudden gust of air came from behind him, and the sound of rapid movement, and a gasp of surprise. He spun in time to see a cloaked figure stumbling across the corridor, moving _through_ Leonie's celestial form, unable to touch her. Behind the figure, a hole in the tunnel wall stood gaping open -- some sort of secret panel, he thought, as his mouth curled in another smirk. Even given the situation, even given their danger, this was just _amusing_.  
  
From across town, he heard a sudden slamming _chord_ in the Symphony. The Song of Shields must have finally given out.  
  
The vampire turned and snarled at them, flashing fangs. He was in full evening dress, white collar gleaming, a ruby stickpin at his throat glittering darkly. "Beware," he snarled, "for I am commander of the dead and living alike! Tremble, fools, before the wrath of the living dead!"  
  
Leonie unfurled her wings into a wide pale spread. Her voice was gentle. "We're angels. We're here to offer you a choice. A different choice. You were saying?"  
  
There was a distinct pause, then the vampire's upper lip drew back into a snarl. His eyes burned, and his upper fangs almost seemed to grow. "Vile oppressors! Filth of Heaven! Haughty bastards who dared to curse me with this form! I'll feast on . . ."  
  
Maher had already begun pulling physical form round himself while the vampire went into his speech. _It's not as if Leonie's kindness worked,_ he thought blandly to himself as he felt muscle settle on him again. _It's not as if she didn't try._ He slid his hand into his pocket, feeling the comfortable weight of the revolver that rested there. _She can't blame herself._   
  
The vampire was turning back towards the Malakite, mid-rant, and was raising a fist to backhand him, when Maher fired.   
  
The bullet took the vampire in the left side of the chest, slamming him back into the stone wall. Blood ran from his mouth as he coughed, dribbling down to stain his spotless collar and shirt, and his expression was one of utmost surprise. "You -- accursed dog of Heaven! Your bullet is sacred!"  
  
"No," said Maher, and fired again, three times, grouping the shots. It was almost too easy, and he could even feel sorry for the creature. "Did you think it had to be a stake?"  
  
The vampire had slid down to the ground, and his eyes were rolling up in his head. Blood covered the raw mess of his chest, and a swelling pool of it crept over the flagstones. Only his cuffs were white now, echoing the pallor of his face. "But," he whispered, shivering with a deathly cold, "but they promised . . ."  
  
His breathing stopped, and his eyes abruptly went flat and empty, staring from nothingness to nothingness.   
  
A gash of light opened on them from the stairway, as the door at the top swung open. Maher reacted on instinct, stepping back into the cover of the shadows. Beside him, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Leonie half stepping into the wall, her angelic form easily passing through the crude matter. That should keep her safe, he thought. Peering upwards, he saw a dark form half-silhouetted by the light -- a man by his clothing, the Calabite by any reasonable guess -- and brought his gun up to fire.  
  
The wall next to the Malakite _exploded_ in a crash of Symphonic pain, shards of brick and stone whipping across the corridor. A wave of rubble buried the twisted body of the vampire, heaping stones and dirt over the pool of blood around him. Maher threw himself backwards, further into the darkness, before it occurred to him that such a move might be less than intelligent. He'd avoided the full force of the blast, certainly, but now he'd have even more trouble reaching the Calabite again unless he went Celestial.  
  
He decided to try some of Leonie's tactics. It might even get the Calabite coming down after him. "Hey there!" he called. "Surrender!" No, that lacked a certain something.   
  
There was another crash, and more of the corridor blew up in a blizzard of stone fragments. Through it came the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, heavy grinding ones.  
  
The matters was much simpler now. Having the Calabite trying to blow up the basement on top of him definitely simplified matters. "It's a pity you don't have a brain worthy of the mention!" he called above the thunder of detonating masonry. "Did you really think Lust would keep their end of the deal? You're _dead_ , demon, dead!"   
  
His backing-up had brought him to the side-door which the vampire had stepped out of. He edged into it, hearing the footsteps approaching. _Never stand in a Calabite's line of sight,_ he remembered his instructors saying, _unless you really want to be a walking target._ There was no sign of Leonie, and he could only hope she had the sense to stay out of the way.  
  
"I'll fix you," the Calabite grunted, his voice soft and harsh through another wave of cracking bricks. "You think you're so smart, angel?" His footsteps came closer. The Symphony rocked and shuddered in great rolling waves, convulsing with every new spasm of destruction. "I dealt with your Lightning friend, but you -- I'm not even going to leave enough of you to blow my _nose_ with!"   
  
_How unoriginal,_ Maher thought with a subdued glee. The Calabite's footsteps were almost at the door in the wall now. Another step, then another . . .  
  
And the Calabite was level with him, and his gun was pointing at the Calabite's head, and he was already starting to squeeze the trigger, when he saw the faint shimmering field that swirled across the Calabite's body.   
  
The demon turned, clearly having expected him to be there, and smiled.  
  
 _Oh, the devil take it,_ he thought as he automatically tossed the gun to one side. It exploded almost as it left his hand, in a burst of fire that mirrored the dark light in the eyes of the Calabite. _Why couldn't the damn creature have been stupid? How am I supposed to get through Corporeal Shields?_ Maher launched himself in a low tackle at the demon, locking his arms around his target's waist, and swung his weight so that they'd land with the demon face down. At least that way the Calabite wouldn't be able to see him . . . The Malakite's hands and arms slipped on the Shields, as they buzzed and trembled under his arms like the vibrating metal casing of an engine.  
  
The Calabite went down with a thud, landing on his face, arms flailing. With a grunted curse he Sang, the notes of the disturbance throbbing in the already jangled Symphony. Claws came grinding out of the demon's fingers like decaying bone, their smell rancid in the air. "Bastard!" he hissed, raking backwards towards Maher, apparently not having realised that his claws couldn't get out of the shield any more than Maher could get in. "You'll all pay for this one! My Prince will reward me, and the Lust-bitch can rot among the corpses!"  
  
Maher desperately reviewed his options as he tried to stay on top of the thrashing demon, and tried to keep the other's face turned away from him. Neither was easy. Another chunk of wall shattered as the Calabite's resonance slashed through it, raising an ominous groan through the remaining brickwork. He didn't have any way to attack the demon's mind, so logically, all he had to do was hang on until the shields wore off . . .  
  
There was just enough time to think, _I'm sure that there was a flaw somewhere in Leonie's plan,_ as he went flying forwards, tumbling through a mass of fractured paving-flags and blood. Behind him, the Calabite shrieked in raw triumph, struggling to his feet.   
  
Maher realised, through a blurring of pain and dizziness, that he was lying half against the wall, with one leg jammed under him. His jacket and shirt and waistcoat were all rucked up under his arms. So much for current fashions.   
  
The Calabite was on his feet, though swaying somewhat, and was pointing a clawed finger at him. "Before you die," he rasped, "I want you to know something." A mad swirling of entropy began to build in the demon's eyes. "I want you to know that I'm going to _kill_ that Lilim bitch for betraying me, and I'm going to kill your pretty friend, and I'm going to find another vampire and train him, and I'm going to get the credit . . ."  
  
The entire basement was creaking and shuddering. A crack was starting to form in the roof of the corridor between two major areas of fracture that the Calabite had blown into the wall. The house groaned above them, sounding ready to collapse and bury them both. _And if it is,_ Maher thought, _that'd do extremely well, given Leonie got the only civilian out._ He took a deep breath, and nearly swallowed a loose tooth. "You don't mean -- that it was you all along?" Damn it all, he reflected, this psychology business is what the Good Lord created Mercurians for. "That it was your plan all along?"  
  
The crack in the ceiling stretched a little wider, loosing a cascade of dust and gravel.  
  
"Yes!" The demon stalked closer, clearly far more intent on the Malakite than on any minor inconveniences such as the house collapsing. "Call me a moron, did she? Did they? Laugh at my Prince? They'll be laughing on the other side of their faces now." He smirked, the dust and Shields making his face a withering mockery. "Care to say anything before I kill you, Malakite? Want to beg for mercy?"  
  
This was humiliating. On the other hand, it was his chance to lure the Calabite into striking distance if the house didn't fall on him. "You -- you were too strong," he choked, trying to remember how it looked when other people did it. Oh yes, that was it. He managed to spit out a little blood, though it was probably barely visible in the dim light. "I should have called for help, rather than try and take you on your own ground . . ." If nothing else, he could at least try and keep Leonie safe. "I wish . . ."  
  
"Yes?" The Calabite's eyes were hungry with a thirst for Maher's degradation. He didn't seem to notice that the Shields were beginning to fade away, or that the ceiling and walls were beginning to tremble again, as he strode towards Maher.   
  
Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Maher watched the ceiling _bulge_ , rippling in unnatural fleshlike movements as it split open, vomiting down stones and masonry. The walls shuddered like living muscle, straining apart to let the ceiling come cascading down. He barely had time to wish that he could have made a witty remark, before the darkness came raining down on him and engulfed him.

* * *

The light was slow, coming down to him through cracks and fragments, filtered through a red haze. It jabbed at him, seeming to crawl painfully across his body, to burn in his head.  
  
Maher opened his eyes. The light of a oil-lantern lay across him in golden streaks, making him instinctively wince and turn his head away. He could sense the _wrongness_ in his right arm, the disjunction in the elbow, the familiar sensation of broken bones. All around him lay chunks of stonework and brick, the remnants of the basement and the ground floor. Everything was silent, except for the hoarse sound of his breathing. With an effort he turned his head back towards the lantern-light, squinting at the woman who held the lantern. Sally Nirren, but with her nature unveiled now.  
  
There were no words for her. She was as terrible as an army with banners, and her body was a weapon, as beautiful as the most elegant spear, sheathed in draperies of sea-green and gold. There was a dreadful burning about her -- nothing physical, except in the sense that she was _wholly_ physical, but a heat that set trembling in his limbs. He _needed_ her in the way that he needed strife, needed to destroy what was evil, and he struggled to turn his face away from her.  
  
"You're mine." Her voice was like the most perfect iron to his ears, commanding and confirming, absolutely dependable, cutting to his core. She began to walk across the rubble towards him, picking her way daintily across the rubble, her trailing skirts held out of the way with her free hand. "You want me. You have to have me. You love me."  
  
And he did -- no, that wasn't love, that was something else, but he didn't have any words for the pressure that made his breathing harsh. She was everything he had to destroy. She was everything that his body wanted.   
  
"Stop." He jerked the word out, shoving himself backward up the wall till he managed to stand upright, leaning against it, his legs trembling. The hilt of one of his knives was solid and comforting under his left hand. "Get away from me, Lilim." Words were a tiny shield against that fire in his body, an attempt to force her presence away from him.   
  
She simply smiled, holding the lantern up as she came closer. "Don't fool yourself, heart of my heart, brave one. You've killed Zathmon. Now I'm yours." Her eyes were wide and dark, like corrupt fruit. "I'm _yours_."  
  
He couldn't think straight. Thoughts of striking her down were mingled with more intimate ones of her flesh, of the warm body under her gown. The conscious intention to strike with his dagger was tangled with  
  
 _hold her, touch her, so warm, so necessary, so urgent_  
  
The shadows spoke with Leonie's voice, and they said, "Surrender, Tempter. Or run. But don't touch him."  
  
Sally Nirren turned sharply, the beams of light dancing wildly as the lantern spun in her hand, making her body seem to move under her gown.  
  
 _take her_  
  
There was nothing to be seen. Only the shadows. Structured thoughts were beginning to fade in Maher's mind as the burning, fevered yearning in him ran higher. He could imagine what the Lilim's skin would taste like, what her muscles would feel like under his hands. He prayed for strength, but he felt the very words begin to slip away from him as his mouth moved, fading under the urge to hold her.  
  
There was a pause, then Sally Nirren laughed. Every note of her laughter was music against Maher's skin, perfect and beautiful. "Get out of here, little Flower. Run while _you_ can. I keep what's mine, and this angel _owes_ me for what he's managed to destroy."  
  
"You aren't giving me much choice." Leonie's voice was cool and uninflected. Maher still couldn't tell where in the ruined basement the words were coming from. He tried to focus. Two steps, and he could bring the knife up into the Lilim's heart, no, he could take her between his hands and, and . . .  
  
Sally Nirren smirked, but on her even that expression was desirable. Turning back towards Maher, she opened her arms, offering herself to him. He couldn't think now. There was nothing in him except the desire for her, an opening into darkness in his heart which he had never expected. Everything sane seemed to be draining away through it, leaving only the _need_ . . .  
  
Between one breath and the next, Leonie was abruptly perceptible, invisibility fallen away like a cloak, her left hand already winding into the Lilim's hair -- that rich, lovely hair -- and her right hand coming up with a knife in it. The Lilim was opening her lips to speak or scream -- those perfect lips, the lips that he had to kiss -- and the knife slashed across her throat. It cut deep, going through windpipe and arteries and veins, and Maher saw the glint of backbone. And the worst thing was that he _still_ wanted the Lilim, still yearned for the dying demon whose mouth opened in a silent scream. Even the blood that spattered across the floor and onto his clothing didn't stop it. Even when the body of the creature who had called herself Sally Nirren was allowed to fall to the floor, even then he could imagine the heat of that flesh.  
  
"Maher." Leonie was shaking his good shoulder. Blood was streaking the bodice of her dress. "Maher, listen to me. Are you okay? Can you walk? This whole place may collapse on us at any moment."  
  
"Better if it did," he gritted out through dry lips. He felt like vomiting. "Dear God. I nearly betrayed myself, betrayed all Heaven for a _demon_."  
  
Her eyes were entirely calm. "Yes, I know. But you didn't. You kept her occupied so I could sneak up on her. Now are you coming, or are you going to stay here with her body?"  
  
His movement towards the door didn't quite have the appropriate balance and elegance that one would expect from a Malakite of War, but he couldn't help feeling that Michael would understand.

* * *

Outside, the rain had almost stopped, with only a thin drizzle moistening the air and slicking the streets. It was perhaps three in the morning, and the streetlamps were still burning. Leonie had strapped his right arm to a rough splint. She had no Essence left to try and Sing healing for him, any more than for herself.   
  
Finally, he said, "I still don't understand." They were walking towards the British Library, which was the nearest Tether, and -- although Destiny, Maher thought uncharitably -- would at least give them a place to rest. "You're Flowers, but you killed her."  
  
Leonie's eyes were shadowed as she looked up at him from where she walked beside him. "You might as well say that I killed her _because_ I'm Flowers."  
  
He shook his head. "It makes no sense. You're life, love, peace, all those things. And you cut her throat as neatly as any of the Intercessors of my Archangel could have done."  
  
Leonie shuddered. "If you must put it that way. Yes, I know you mean it as a compliment, but even so."  
  
Maher walked a few steps in silence, then said, "I'm not trying to blame you. But if I've misjudged you, misjudged all your kind, then I need to know why." He paused. "And I'm grateful."  
  
"It's not misunderstanding." Rain and gaslight made a halo of her blonde hair. "It is just that -- violence is a last resort for my kind, Maher, but it's still an option. Our Lady of the Flowers understands that. And when I had no other choice except running away and leaving you to her, or striking to kill, she understands that too. She doesn't refuse all violence, any more than your Lord refuses all peace."  
  
"I couldn't serve her, though." Maher's voice was low. "She's too foreign to what I am. I'm not like you, Leonie."  
  
Leonie sighed, and leaned against Maher's side, slipping her arm around him. He stiffened before relaxing into the embrace. "I know," she murmured. "Maher, please, I didn't _want_ to kill her, I wanted to make her see sense, I wanted to stop her." The Mercurian's voice was raw. "Why couldn't she have listened to me when I said she wasn't giving me a choice?"  
  
Maher carefully put his good arm around her shoulders, taking pains not to touch her wounded side. He felt a little stronger, to be able to help her. Several thoughts ran through his head, from the fact that the Lilim had been a demon to the fact that she'd been stupid, but in the end he couldn't find any answers. "You saved lives. Mine, other people's. You weren't responsible for her."  
  
Leonie was silent for the rest of the street, but he could feel her relax under his arm. Vaguely he wondered what it would actually be like to heal another being -- to actively be responsible for the repair of flesh and soul, to restore the tiniest fracture in a part of the Symphony.  
  
"By the way," Leonie said, in an elaborately innocent tone, "did you hear that Holmes might have survived Reichenbach?"  
  
He blinked at her. "Impossible! He went over the edge of the Falls with Moriarty. Nobody could have survived!"  
  
Leonie smiled sweetly. "Well, that Cherub I know who met Conan Doyle said . . ."


End file.
